


of service and gratitude

by Nappinginthegrave



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hot and Cold, M/M, at this point i'm not even sure if it's romantic, basically hurt comfort, uh description of wounds if that's a problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nappinginthegrave/pseuds/Nappinginthegrave
Summary: au where Calamita is home when Gaetano gets returned from Cannon's capture.
Relationships: Gaetano Fadda/Constant Calamita
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	of service and gratitude

Calamita hasn't cried since he was a child, but he comes close the day Gaetano calls home. A choked gasp trapped behind his lips. Had he known who was on the other end, he might’ve picked it up with more reverence. He hates that the first words Gaetano heard were snapped out for interrupting a ball game over the radio.

  
His voice is almost unrecognizable with its heavy rasp and tiredness. Smaller than Gaetano should be. He coughs and wheezes in between words.

  
Calamita slams the phone down once he's heard the location. His ears are ringing and he can feel his face morph into unfamiliar expressions. He touches his cheek before he's able to calm himself to a more neutral expression. It might’ve been a mistake getting close to Gaetano. The distraction of emotions makes Calamita’s job only that much more difficult.

  
How many days has it been? Not long, comparatively. They’ve spent a lifetime apart before this, and he can’t rationalize how attached he’s grown to the other man.

  
Calamita barks orders at the others to pick up their boss. Trying to maintain his composure. He's successful when watched, but then he's in his bedroom staring his hands shake. Calamita doesn’t look as the car leaves the driveway. Any metric given; this is a win. He should be happy, but all he feels is the twisting of his stomach, coiling around itself at the thought of what Cannon’s done.

  
Alive. That’s important. Really the only part that matters. And now he’s coming back.

  
But things aren’t right. Gaetano appeared as a ghost. A shallow and pale reflection of his past, almost deflated in how he held himself. Imitation would not be possible, but by all accounts, he seems an impostor as he is moved from the car to the porch.

  
Calamita has seen men in worse states, put men into worse states, but it still hurts to see Gaetano's face puffed up and purple, the gash along his head, the numerous marks as proof of being bound. He couldn't stand for more than a few seconds by himself. Where does strength go when it is stolen, Calamita wonders. Three men took turns and half-drag, half-carry him to his bedroom.

  
Calamita let him sleep for a while. The door was left open, so he could watch the rise and fall of Gaetano's chest every time he walked past. They live in separate rooms in the same house, but they often socialize together. It was nothing unusual for Calamita to be present. Maybe somewhat suspicious with the way he hovers overhead. Gaetano’s death is not allowed. Perhaps, if he’s always watching, then the grim reaper won’t have a chance to enter room.

  
\----------------

  
Calamita could’ve had many jobs. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. He’s the medic when the wounds are superficial or a hospital is too far a travel. It’s normal. It’s fine, really. Calamita’s long fingers pushing and pulling along an ocean of battered flesh. Such a heavy sleeper. Ribs are intact. Bones are unbroken. No clear signs of internal bleeding, and the head wound has scabbed. There doesn’t appear to be long-lasting damage. Physically, at least.

  
For some reason, this good news gives no relief. He wears a bald spot in the carpet before the bed. Calamita should allow for rest. Healing takes time. Everything takes time when he is so impatient. Anger and fear sitting in his veins makes stillness a far-off idea. He abandoned a book on the floor and instead listens to the radio while stabbing the arm of his chair.

  
\-------------------

  
He wakes up with a scream stuck halfway down his throat, rousing himself from a nightmare. Fresh sweat forming overtop old as his eyes pop open and threaten to evacuate his skull. Calamita watches the slowed movement as Gaetano recognizes the familiar room. He looks too small still as he sits up in the bed. A dimension of him was stripped away. A selfish part of Calamita hates him for this. First to be made to care for someone, second to have no control over their life. A forced party to this agony.

“Calamita,” he says in a scratched up voice. His eyes are still so swollen he can barely see.

  
Calamita acts as a figure of shadow, guiding Gaetano. It’s better that his expression of tight discomfort goes unnoticed. The assault of salt and iron and grime suddenly make him feel queasy. He wipes his hands off on the bedspread.

  
Gaetano sits up and picks up a glass of water off the night stand. He knows enough to take small sips or risk throwing it back up.

  
“That’s enough.”

  
Gaetano sets the glass back down. He waits mutely while Calamita shuffles around him. In and out of the room with a nervousness that does not suit him.

  
Gaetano isn't the type to tend to his wounds especially well, so Calamita is there with wash cloths and iodine and wraps. He has a water basin, freshly filled and just a little too hot to be comfortable, but Gaetano doesn't make a noise.

  
That's alarm bells that won’t shut off and keep piercing through his psyche. Gaetano is loud, boisterous, chatty, and anything but quiet. Calamita glances at him from the corner of his eye, but Gaetano seems somewhere else.

  
He barely even breathes as Calamita soaks through all the dried blood on his skin. The near scalding water changes into deeper shades of red as the minutes pass. Mostly Calamita works around his neck and shoulders. Careful as he tries, pink dots of watery blood drip a circle around his friend. Later he’ll clean the sheets. More likely he’ll throw them out. He forces eye contact while he wipes Gaetano’s face. Holding him in his hands confirms a quiet possessiveness. This spark comes across as a hard look that Gaetano shies away from.

  
He watches as Gaetano gets off the bed. He kneels by the tub, scrubs the grime off his hands and arms. Slow and methodical like he wants to draw out time. He gets up with some difficulty and looks to dry himself on a towel in the closet.

  
It's too warm and humid in the room, the windows steamed up slightly. Calamita wishes he were out in the snow for a moment and a shiver shakes him out of his mind. Calamita loosens his tie and undoes his first button. Upon inspection, his sleeves are still soaked through with dirty water despite being pushed up past his elbows. He has the thought of asking whether Gaetano wants to change out of his bloody undershirt, but he leaves it unsaid. They sit beside one another on the bed.

  
It is not the first and hopefully not the last time that Calamita’s offered first aide.

  
Calamita is gentler than he has to be as he circles each of Gaetano's wrists in bandages. He holds one of Gaetano's hands in both of his, turning it over slowly to check for anything before moving onto the next. Softer than Calamita expects, only bare callouses on one hand outlining the basic shape of a knife handle. It's hard to say why he lingered with his thumbs brushing Gaetano's palm, but nothing came of it. He pats ointment around the overlapping bruises around his neck.

  
During this time Gaetano is more alert. He breathes heavy like it hurts him to fill his lungs, but he doesn’t respond to Calamita’s touch.

  
Finally, a reaction when tending to Gaetano's head wound. Flinches and reserved winces. It's okay once he holds Gaetano still. Calamita stands while Gaetano remains seated on the edge of the bed. Better a sting of disinfection than a death of sepsis. When it's all done something in Gaetano unclenches. His shoulders broaden as they relax.

  
He can't stop himself from hugging around Calamita's middle and pushing the clean side of his head into Calamita's chest. A bruising strength to make up for the affectionate gesture.

  
"It's all right, boss." Calamita pats his head then lets his fingers linger. It feels like a boa constrictor crushing him. "Gaetano." Arms loosen around him to a softer hug, and Calamita sighs. "It’s good that you’re back."

  
“You-” Gaetano's eyes dampen and an intensity stiffens his brow. “You are good to me.”

  
It's disarming. Too much and not enough. Calamita has pulled his hand back, studying the blood staining his skin. He puts it back down and slides his fingers through the hair at the nape of Gaetano’s neck. “I know. You’re easy to be good to.”

  
“Thank you.” It’s barely audible. Spoken entirely into Calamita’s chest.

  
His skin crawls at the sincerity. The sound vibrations echo through him. Calamita pushes him off. “Did they feed you? Stay here. I’ll get some food.”

  
Gaetano doesn’t protest. Slowly over the next few hours he remembers the self he must be. Without chains and blood and fear. Calamita is steadfast at his side while he rebuilds himself. The strength shared is invaluable. It redoubles his desire to win the war.


End file.
